


Twist, Tangle, Tie

by Tenebrous (selwyn)



Series: Kinbaku-bi (The Beauty of Tight Binding) [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/Tenebrous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Duly Appointed Enforcer is a not a figure of fun. Or romance. But Ultra Magnus is no longer duly appointed anything, is he? Cut free from his post and the tethers of his title, Magnus is drifting in uncertain waters without an anchor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist, Tangle, Tie

**Part I:** **片手首縛り( Katate kubi shibari)**

...

It had started as an accident. It had been… well, he wasn’t sure what it had been. Not anymore.

It had been an argument with Dominus. Like all their arguments, it quickly blew up into something larger. Dominus was never known for his cool helm, and Minimus was no different, though he hid it better. Rationality lost out to previously forgotten bad blood until debate turned to argument, and words poisoned barbs meant to hurt rather than reason. Bristling at each other, too entrenched on their respective sides to stop, the entire meeting turned sour within moments.

Minimus barely remembered what they started arguing over – something to do with him going off planet, probably.

The mech sighed as he looked around. Storming out of the transport to spite Dominus had not been a good idea. Minimus was not familiar with this part of Iacon. It wasn’t close to the seedier areas, but it was a good deal… shadier than what he was used to dealing with.

A few mecha standing on the street corner gave him a leer that prompted the ‘bot to skitter away onto the other side of the street. He was out of his depth here, nervous and alone. Dominus was probably too incensed to search him out yet, so Minimus would be alone for a while.

For now, at least, he needed to get off the street. It was painfully obvious that he didn’t belong here and the longer he stood alone, gawping, the more time it gave for lowlife to designate him as a target.

Minimus took a few steps, optics flickering from side to side as he searched for a place to make his stop for the night. A few darkened eateries, a raucous bar, and… some place quite unlike any of the others.

It was apart from the other establishments, for one. Where all the stores on this street were jammed into one, unending line of noise, lights, and bright colors in a constant shouting match to win attention, this one stood apart. It was surrounded by space on both sides, as if it demanded to remain untouched, and Minimus suspected the use of noise dampeners when the music dimmed as he stepped near.

The establishment was tall, imperious, looming. Great round windows, big yellow eyes peering down at him, filtered hazy light on the street. The establishment was built out of some sort of smooth black material that seemed to soak up the light and give none back. He would suspect rock, but that would be impractical.

A touch fascinated, Minimus meandered closer to give the place a more thorough examination. Its entrance was fairly bare; the blackness was only interrupted by the windows and the wide set of doors, steel and heavy, big enough to accommodate even space-faring mecha. The doors were thrown open but the interior was a mystery.

As if on cue, before Minimus could try to knock, someone appeared before him. A mech – tall, lithe, exotic in the strangely organic mold of his frame – looked down at him emotionlessly. He was white, completely, scandalously white, and Minimus averted his optics with a soft cough when he understood the manner of establishment he’d stumbled into.

“Do you have an appointment?” the mech asked pointedly and Minimus blinked.

“I… no. I was lost, you see, and I need some way to contact…” he trailed off. Who was he going to contact? Dominus? He would sooner punch his brother than beg for his help. “… call a transport.”

There. Better. He had enough money for that.

The mech offered an imperious tilt of his helm. His gold optics alighted on Minimus’ face – on his house marking, he realized with a hint of dismay. “A member of House Ambus is always welcome within our humble house. Please, come in. The mistress has been contacted, and he will give you the help you desire.”

The formal speech patterns made Minimus squint, but it was getting dark and a shareware house had as good communications as any. He followed when the mech –a greeter of some sort? – turned and swept into the mysterious house on soundless pedes.

“The mistress will be here shortly. In the meantime, do you wish to review our services?” the greeter said peaceably and Minimus flushed. The interior was a little dark but his vision adjusted. Several mecha were lined at the front, some lounging, or pacing, or leaning on walls, all watching him with the curious intensity of a cybercat watching a glitchmouse wander into its fuel dish.

He couldn’t see very well, but they seemed distressingly attractive even from a distance. A hurried cough to reduce the static in his vocalizer later, and Minimus shook his helm jerkily.

“No need. I will wait.”

“We can send someone over if you – “

“No. Need.”

The greeter bowed, long legs going back as his stylized helm dipped into a graceful show of respect and deference. Minimus firmly refused to follow the way long digits – were those _needles_? – folded up one by one in the florid gesture. “Yes, sir. The mistress is here now.”

Minimus nodded and looked to see the mistress. He looked up. And up. And up.

 _Red_ was his first impression. Then _gold_. Then _oh Primus, those legs are longer than I am tall_.

The mistress looked like what you might get if you took liquid fire, crystallized it, and gave it life. The _tink-tink_ of the regal heels that lent the mistress his prodigious height matched the flickering beat of Minimus’ stunned spark. No way was this the proprietor of some tawdry buymech den. The stunning head dress, the domineering presence of someone well-versed in the manners of the nobility…

Minimus had stumbled into somewhere far more dangerous. This was the home of escorts – the high profile creatures only the rich and powerful could afford to play with. And this mech was the spearhead of it all – a house mistress, the alpha of the pack, stepping down to examine the intruder within its darkened lair.

Painfully aware of the bright optics dotting the landscape behind the mistress – were they the fellow predators, then, in this analogy? Staying in the shadows, ready to slink away or leap in at the right command… the small mech shifted uneasily, feeling watched.

Short, small, average Minimus didn’t belong here. The mistress stopped a distance away from him and gave a little sound that managed to sound inquiring, thoughtful, and disdainful all at once. Minimus couldn’t even bring himself to be offended at such a beautiful sound.

“May I know as to your reasons for darkening the steps of my little house, Minimus of House Ambus?” the mistress intoned, the cold-cut lines of his gorgeous face hardly even looking at him.

He tried to speak a little. After a few false starts, Minimus managed to croak, “I need to call a transport. I don’t have my comm, so I thought you could aid me.”

A soft hum. “A service? The House of Ambus would call upon Sunspear?”

Ohhhh no. This sounded like a trap. Minimus back-pedaled, telling himself that this pretty mech was the mistress of an escort house and no one stepped near _them_ without good reason. “Not Ambus. Minimus. As… a gift to someone in need.”

Sunspear moued. “You will find gifts in short stock within our trade, Minimus Gift-Seeker. No service comes free, and no gift comes without price.”

“I have shanix. I can…”

“Sunspear deals with shanix by the millions. Keep your paltry offerings. Will you offer anything of use, or will I turn you away?”

Minimus stared at the mistress. “It’s just a call. You won’t _lose_ anything.”

“Sunspear has a code. One does not give things out – such is bad practice, no? Even here and now, you take Sunspear’s time and offer little in return. In your refusal to name your allegiances to House of Ambus, you are simply Minimus, the stranger that would ask of me for a boon though I offer none.”

Like Dominus, Minimus kept his toes out of politics. It was messy, sloppy, and too involved for his tastes. Unlike Dominus, however, Minimus did it because he possessed no talent for wordplay.

“I have nothing else to offer,” he confessed.

“A beggar, then?” Sunspear gave him a look that made him feel precisely ten inches tall. “Soliciting aid from the houses your brother looks down on so much. What would he think, Gift-Seeker, to see you standing here?”

“I am not defined by Dominus,” Minimus said harshly, optics narrowed as his EM field fell flat and angry at the unwanted comparison. “His opinions are not mine.”

“Oh?” Sunspear circled around him, heels tapping out a staccato on the flooring. “An individual of his own make, I see. A sliver more respectable than someone hiding behind another’s plate-skirts, at least. How about a trade, then? You will give me what I want, and I shall give you what you want.”

“I thought you didn’t want money.”

“I do not,” Sunspear said. “I require a service – one only a clear mind, free of bias or prejudice, can give me. I do not work in boons, but I _do_ work in barter.”

At Minimus’ scandalized look, Sunspear laughed. It was a cold sound, lacking emotion or inflection beyond what was needed to sound beautiful. “Not that manner of service, Gift-Seeker. Sunspear will show you a performance. Tell Sunspear what you see, and you shall have your call.”

It sounded shady. Warning bells rang in his processor but Minimus was already opening his mouth. “Fine.”

Besides, it was just a show, right?

…

The room they walked into was dark. Not dark like the foyer – which had been purposefully left in a constant state of twilight that brought to mind defragmentation dreams – but utterly black. Minimus felt the press of the shadows on him like a physical force as he followed the mistress. Unnerved, he spoke.

“What is this?”

“Shh,” urged Sunspear. “Watch.”

Minimus clammed up with some hesitation. He almost jumped when a spotlight he could not see clicked on with a heavy _clunk_. Sunspear muttered something disparaging but Minimus was no longer paying attention to him.

In the spotlight stood a mech. They were… bare, for lack of a better word. Silvery, unadorned protoform unhidden by protecting layers of plating shimmered under the stark lighting as the lone mech was joined by another. This one was fully covered, which only emphasized the vulnerability of the first even further.

A medic might have been unsurprised. Being no medic, however, left Minimus ignorant to what a protoform actually looked like when it wasn’t covered. He’d seen holopics and scans of his own, sure, but seeing it in reality made it different somehow. No holovid could adequately capture the nigh-invisible hairline seams that crisscrossed the entire frame, for instance. Each slab of pliable metal has a purpose, a role, a part to play in the overall structure. Exposed wires and biolight-stippled circuitry sat between the grey interior-plates, offering optic-teasing flashes of color amidst the grey sea.

Minimus gaped. What was this…?

The bare mech seemed to sense his audience, and he raised his arms. Cables stretched, hydraulics hissed, and the ball joints of his shoulders turned slowly as elegantly proportioned limbs spread out like the wings of a flier. The performer then stretched.

It was a liquid move – a forward roll of his chest contrasted by the slow back slide of his hips. A long undulating wave of light played on the soft metal as it rippled in a manner that left Minimus’ mouth dry. Plates slid, some tightening and clamping down as others expanded. Between the chinks, pink lines of light piping were visible.

In the silence, the click of his vents was almost mortifying. Minimus looked away, at where the mistress was, trying to urge his frame to _be quiet_. “What is the point of this?” he hissed under his breath. He sounded strained.

“A new show Sunspear has been creating,” the mistress murmured, “A new attraction built upon inspiration. Continue watching, Minimus, and reap your reward after.”

A huff and Minimus reluctantly – though not as reluctantly as he would like – returned to watching the show. The stretching was done, but his plight was hardly over. The performer was now show-casing his flexibility.

Without chunky, blocky plates to get in the way, the mech was able to fold up in ways that could not possibly be legal. Scandalized and frozen in place, he stood witness along with Sunspear as the performer bent backwards, legs soaring into the air, and –

Minimus choked when he saw the transparent interface array. His vent ticked a little higher.

“Hush,” Sunspear put his servo on Minimus’ shoulder, seemingly amused, “the main show is to start.”

The second mech, who’d been simply standing and watching his partner slink about, moved into action. He unfurled something – bright red and thin – into two loops. Red rope, soft and pretty, coiled around the performer’s bare shoulders in a startling contrast of metal to fabric, red to grey.

Thin red loops trawled over the performer as his body was wrapped. The two mecha didn’t move like separate entities. No. Instead, each of their motions was done in tandem as the red rope danced and slid around the two. The soft _shhh-sh_ of it slipping over internal plating made Minimus swallow thickly.

“Rope bondage,” Sunspear said suddenly, startling Minimus out of his stunned stupor, “born in Vos before the Unification period from the Vosian glyphs meaning ‘to tie’, were originally techniques their enforcers used to subdue criminals and prepare them for questioning. After Unification, the practice moved into Praxus as an alternative art form.”

The performer twisted back and the rope ventured under his outstretched arm. He lifted his leg and the red bonds ghosted between his uncovered thighs. Somewhere, however, it got caught. Rather than manually adjust it, the performer seemed to delight in wriggling in place to tease the rope free. Minute flicks of shapely thighs made the rope dance as the performer moved his hips back and forth, back and forth in some rhythm only known to him.

His transparent array was not visible save for flashes of lighting on it when the performer turned about in taunting, teasing little circles that urged the rope out. The rope itself was loosening and tightening in ways that made Minimus’ imagination whirl at just _what_ was happening between those thighs. It made a few more whispering _shhh-sh_ sounds as it finally came loose, prompting a soft gasp of delight from the performer.

Primus have mercy on him, because Minimus was sure he’d committed some form of sacrilege watching this.

“It is meant to create shapes and form out of the rope,” Sunspear said, his long fingers a heavy, curious weight on Minimus’ pauldron, “the contrast of the rope and its patterns upon the truest form of a Cybertronian. In this, the model is the canvas, the rope the paint, and the rigger the visionary artist.”

The second mech, who’d been watching patiently as his performer danced about, swept broad servos over his uncovered belly and red ties followed in their wake. The pattern began to emerge – a secure loop around the neck that trickled down to triangles of netting all over the chest and shoulders. The arms were kept back. Red ropes emphasized the subtle flaring of the hips before framing the transparent array in a sloping ‘v’.

“The arrangement can be as complicated or simple as you like,” the performer leaned back and the rigger ran a proprietary digit over his sides. Sunspear sounded pleased. “And it can symbolize anything from vulnerability, sensuality, or even strength.”

Tipped back, another red rope looped around the tie around his neck and connected to the ties around the base of his spine. Bent back like this, the performer lifted one leg to balance himself. There wasn’t even a hint of trembling in his frame as he stood, legs perfectly stretched out and back strut bowed.

“He can hold himself like that for hours,” Sunspear told Minimus, “framed in the perfection of his art. It will hurt. He will ache and his protoform will bear the marks of his dedication. Each of those knots are centered on sensors just under the surface. Even moving as he does right now costs him.”

“Then why?” Minimus asked, unable to look away.

“To look beautiful,” Sunspear answered him, “and not the simple, petty beauty of vanity. No… this is art. The art of shape and body, the art of knowing self-sacrifice in the name of fleeting beauty. It is the balance of trust between the model and the artist, the exchange of power to someone so that they may make you into something of visual awe.”

Minimus looked doubtful. “It… it looks painful.”

“To an outsider, perhaps,” Sunspear chuckled. “Look. Look upon his face. Does he not look euphoric?”

A closer glance revealed that yes, Sunspear was right. The performer’s optics were glazed, lips curled up in a blessed-out grin, utterly relaxed and at ease.

“We call it ‘top space’,” Sunspear said. “A rush of fuel to your processor as it runs smoother than before to give you clarity of vision and purpose. Entering that sub state of trance as the ropes come around you – finding freedom in being bound, as I have heard it be called. Curious, no?”

There was a sound of ecstasy as the ropes were tightened. Minimus clenched his fists. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

Sunspear looked down at him. The little green mech, who still stared. “Have you?”

Reluctantly, he tore his optics away. “Y-Yes. I want my call.”

“And if we offered the same to you?”

“What?”

Sunspear smiled at his shock and gestured at the pair in the spotlight. “Do you want to know what the ropes feel like?”

Minimus gaped over the stutter of his vents. “I’m not… I’m not like…”

“No one will know,” Sunspear said slyly and raised a finger to his painted lips. “Our little secret, hm?”

Temptation almost made him say yes. But this was the mistress of an escort house – nothing they ever offered came without a price. Minimus glanced at the performer once before turning away resolutely. “No. Just the call, thank you.”

Sunspear looked disappointed – probably a calculated move on his part, Minimus thought scathingly – and nodded. “Very well. Follow me. I will lead you to the communication center.”

With one last glance at the couple, Minimus scurried after him.

He’d refused to the offer two more times before finally extracting himself. What Minimus could not shake off, however, was Sunspear’s knowing gaze, or the burn of the yellow windows of the house peering down at him slyly as he asked for a rigging center.

Nearly an hour later, home and alone, Minimus found himself clutching a set of ropes – red like the performer’s – and feeling like he’d been played, somehow.


End file.
